


Only If For A Night

by FreshBrains



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canonical Character Death, Community: rounds_of_kink, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Clint, Post-Avengers (2012), Sad, Safehouses, Snowed In, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Clint’s alone in a shack, trying to keep his body temp up, stomach rumbling with hunger. He’s good at surviving, always has been. But now? Now he wants Phil. He wants his man back, but he’s dead, and Clint is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only If For A Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/gifts).



> For the LJ Rounds of Kink prompt: _Avengers (movie-verse); Clint Barton/Phil Coulson; dreams/memories; Save the night time for your weeping_.
> 
> This prompt is a couple years old, so it's in a 'verse assuming Coulson died during _The Avengers_ and this takes place sometime afterwards.

_God, Phil, you’d hate this place,_ Clint thinks as he burrows deeper into the collar of his jacket. Another flurry of snow falls through the leaking roof, dusting the dirty floor. He can hear some kind of animal—probably a raccoon, the little bastard—in the next room, but he doesn’t plan on leaving the fire until the extraction team arrives.

Then, he thinks, _get the fuck out of my head_. He rolls over and closes his eyes, back against the heat.

No one can ever say he’s bad at compartmentalizing. Him and Natasha, the king and queen of compartmentalization.

What a freakin’ joke.

He’s in a safe house, one of half a dozen scattered among the Appalachian Mountains, huddling on an army cot in front of the stone fireplace. Cap and Stark are on their way but Clint told them to hold off until morning when the snow died down—the mark was detained, the threat subdued, and Clint was too tired and pissy to do much else than fall asleep still wrapped in his jacket.

The last mission that ended like this was in a Minnesota resort town where a well-known crime boss was hiding out after taking out his wife and two kids all the way over in Detroit. Bless SHIELD and their baddie-finding initiative, sure, but they always sent Clint to the cold places, despite Nat’s obvious experience with a little below-zero.

After the asshole was detained with only an arrow in his arm, Phil went up to get Clint himself, complete with extra winter gear, new boots, and a thermos of spiked coffee. They rented a cabin for a night, got tipsy, fucked in front of the fire, made a mess of each other after telling Fury they were stuck for the night due to winter storms.

It was a different time. A different _world_.

Now Clint’s alone in a shack, trying to keep his body temp up, stomach rumbling with hunger. He’s good at surviving, always has been. But now? Now he wants Phil. He wants his man back, but he’s dead, and Clint is alone.

_Maybe just for tonight_ , Clint thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut tight. His stiff, cold hands clench into fists, tugging at the wool of his gloves, and he lets himself escape.

*

Phil looks ridiculous in ski gear. It can’t be ignored. He’s a man meant for suits, jeans, and tee shirts—he’s basically the poster child for Dad Clothes. Clint sort of likes that about him. But when he comes into the safe house decked head-to-toe in nylon and shearling, eyes protected by thick goggles, Clint likes him even more.

“My hero,” Clint says dryly through chattering teeth, curling up tighter on the cot. “I thought you’d wait until the storm passed.”

Phil closes the door hard, shaking snow off the roof, and stamps his boots on the floor to clean them off. He yanks away his goggles and ski mask to reveal his wry smile and wind-chafed face. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”

Clint laughs, burying his face in the balled-up winter hat he’s using as a pillow. “You’re ridiculous. Come here.”

Phil sheds his layers slowly until he’s down to sweats and an undershirt, leaving a trail of wet wool behind him. Then there’s no more cot, no more leaky roof, no more scuffling vermin—it’s just the two of them in a well-heated chalet, the fire roaring, their warm bodies twined together in a pile of blankets on the floor.

*

_That was never us,_ Clint thinks, trying desperately to stay in the fantasy. _We were all borrowed time and quick fucking when we could make room for it._

*

Phil’s hands are sure and strong on Clint’s body, strong in a way Clint isn’t used to. Phil remained a mystery since the minute Clint met him—smart and gentle, sure, but he could kick ass and shoot a man in the head without so much as blinking. He was the perfect agent because nobody ever looked twice at him—nobody but Clint.

All Clint knew was that Phil touched him like there was nothing he’d rather do for the rest of his life.

Clint is slick and open, thighs spread on the fur rug, the fire making sweat roll down his chest. “Come on, boss,” he says, giving Phil a challenging smile. “Warm me up, huh?”

Phil just grins and grips Clint’s hips, hands slippery with sweat and lube, shaking with the need to be inside him. “You know I’ll always give you what you need, Barton,” he says, and presses the head of his cock against Clint’s hole.

Clint throws an arm over his eyes, groaning, almost embarrassed by how much he loves it—Phil above him, around him, steady and firm, pressing into him slow. “ _Fuck_ , Phil.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Phil murmurs, lips against Clint’s neck as he rocks his hips into Clint, cock sliding into him easily. His voice is husky with something like love.

“I know,” Clint says.

*

Clint opens his eyes, waking with a jolt. Icicles crack off the siding of the safe house and fall into snow banks with forlorn _thuds_ , the noise hollow in Clint’s chest.

His back is overheated from the diminishing fire, and he rolls over with a groan. Beneath the layers of clothing, he can feel his cock throb in his underwear. He wills it to go away. There’s nothing he can do to make it better, anyways.

“Fuck, Phil,” he hisses, gripping the edge of the cot so hard that the metal supports creak. “Every time I think you’re gone, I bring you right back, don’t I?” _It’s my fault,_ he thinks. _The dead need to stay dead. I’m not a kid anymore._

He stares into the glowing coals in the fireplace. On another night, he’d imagine Phil behind him, holding him close, cold nose pressed against the base of his neck.

But not anymore tonight. Tonight, Clint thinks that he deserves to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by Florence & the Machine


End file.
